


The Business of Killing

by Aoidos



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2086485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond's past comes back to haunt him, and Q is there to pick up the pieces</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Business of Killing

Operations are compartmentalized at MI6 for maximum efficiency, but also to ensure plausible deniability. Whenever Westminster’s suits stick their noses into what so-and-so agent is up to in a remote jungle somewhere, Q gets to shrug his shoulders and deflect by saying no one tells research and development anything about field activities. 

Which, of course, is a lie.

Q knows everything about on-the-ground operations because he’s charged with accessorizing agents with the latest in high-tech gadgets designed to save their lives in a pinch. He must know about every square inch of the agents in order to serve them best, and for the most part the higher-ups (including M) understand this, but should they decide certain bits of information are too sensitive for even Q’s eyes, well, he’s yet to meet a firewall he can’t hack.

But he’s never had a need to be underhanded in his research— until 007.

All the “Double O” agents carry a certain degree of mystique, possessing a government-granted license to kill tends to do that to a person, but 007 is more mysterious than the rest. Q is not a gossip, but he’s surrounded by people of that nature, who speculate about the man’s past and current shenanigans in a plethora of exotic locations. Day after day they toil in the lab, poking at microchips and tapping away on keyboards, developing pinched nerves and Carpal tunnel, all the while endlessly chattering about _who the man is_ and _what he’s doing right now_.

It’s all rather undignified, he thinks, so he doesn’t participate. In fact, as head of his devision, he has the authority to tell them to knock it off — and he does.

The 007 gossip dies down after that.

At twenty-four, Q is the youngest head of the department ever, and he’s under no illusions that being a wunderkind and an advocate of professionalism will win him any fans. He tells himself that mixing work relationships with personal friendships would be disastrous anyway, and besides, he’s too busy constantly replacing the mountain of ammunitions 007 loses in the field to prattle away at things like after-work pub-crawls. 

The only person to dare drop by Q’s workspace is Miss Moneypenny (he resolutely _refuses_ to call her Eve, even though the first time they met she said he could, and his ears turned scarlet in response), perhaps because they have the shared thread of 007 to pull them together. He has no idea if they’ve gone to bed together, but he assumes they have because Bond has a reputation with the ladies — one of those impossible, mythological auras that probably has been exaggerated a thousandfold — but Q is sure any woman at MI6 would gladly join the queue in the pantheon of Bond’s lovers, and many have.

At any rate, she seems _very_ interested in his whereabouts, and Q has a soft spot for her, so he humors her theories even though he knows exactly where Bond is at all times. He also knows when the man departed, when he’s due back, and the reading of his heart rate at that very moment (thanks to the microchip monitor embedded under the skin of his left pectoral muscle).

“Thailand?” she asks, seated on the edge of his desk, her smile bright and perfect.

“Got it in one,” he lies, only briefly glancing her way to offer a tight-lipped smile. 

He resumes tapping on his keyboard, line-after-line of code springing up on the screen. Bond is in northern Africa, Egypt to be precise, but there’s no reason anyone besides he and M need to possess that knowledge.

Alas, she’s a smart woman, and Q can feel her curious gaze boring a hole in his temple before she softly comments: “You’re very protective of him.”

He doesn’t know what to say in response to that, so instead stands suddenly and announces he has to check on the new radio transmitter models, which is true, but luckily also provides him with an excuse to not interact with people for a little while.

The new transmitters look the same, but an eager team of fresh-faced engineers assure him they can transmit and receive signals from a vastly wider radius. Q nods thoughtfully, rolling the thumb-sized device in his palm and then holding it close to his face to examine it. All the while, he’s thinking about Bond in Egypt, wondering if he was able to infiltrate the political dissidents outlined in the manifesto Q hacked into and read late last night. He’s so preoccupied that Tanner is able to sidle up to him and declare: “He wants to see you,” which very nearly results in Q dropping the radio.

“Right…yes, of course,” he stammers, carefully setting down the transmitter, to the great relief of the engineers.

 He’s still adjusting to the sight of Gareth Mallory sitting in M’s chair, but he’s the _new M_ , he reminds himself, spine straightening as he awaits the reason he’s been summoned. 

“Q…” the man greets, ostensibly pleased to see him. He stands and gestures to a vacant chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.” He does, hands folded on his lap, posture rigid as he waits for the true purpose of this meeting. M sits again and watches him, something like amusement gleaming in his gaze as though he finds Q’s disciplined courtesy entertaining. “I’m afraid I need to ask you for a personal favor. It’s about Bond—“

“What’s happened?” Q blurts.

He presses his lips together. “Nothing specifically. I mean if there’s any sudden changes in his health readings. If he’s showing sudden…distress. I need you to come tell me immediately, understand?”

Q glances downward and notices his hands have shifted, slender fingers now gripping his thighs, the knuckles white. He smooths them across his slacks, hoping to camouflage the sign of anxiety as a casual movement. “That’s standard protocol,” he quips, but when M continues to steadily stare at him, adds: “If anything atypical happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

M smiles, but there’s nothing friendly or comforting about the expression: “Very good.”

***

The conversation gets him wondering — why would M suddenly be so concerned about Bond’s well-being? His fingertips rapidly click on the keyboard to bring up Bond’s vitals. Everything looks just as it did an hour ago — normal and steady. He watches the bar that monitor’s Bond’s breathing, the green line rising and falling in comforting, familiar regularity. Q leans back in his chair and finds his breathing mimicking the display screen. 

The thing about Q is once his interest is piqued, there’s almost nothing that can stop him from fully vanquishing his thirst for knowledge. He signs into the MI6 mainframe and re-reads Bond’s field mission report, but there’s no new information gleaned from the endeavor, so next he accesses the agent’s psychological profile. Strangely, it’s password protected even though he has the highest security clearance, but that only slows down Q for about thirty seconds. After hacking into the file, he downloads it to a flash drive and then pockets it to read later.

The rest of the day carries on as usual: he watches the digital version of Bond — all the dry numbers and readings that monitor his base functions — but he can’t see the man’s face, and he can’t see inside his head. He has no idea why M is suddenly so concerned about the agent, but he intends to get to the bottom of it.

***

Rush hour on the tube is a nightmare — walls of people shuffling through the labyrinths of underground tunnels, a victory of inches until they can pile into metal cylinders, and the wonders of engineering send them hurdling towards their respective homes. Earbuds embedded, eyes downcast, fixed to the spot between the shoulder blades of the stranger in front of him, Q remembers with some fondness the time he helped 007 navigate his way through the underground. A ghost of a smile rests on his lips when he recalls teasing Bond about not _understanding_ the plights of the little people, namely commuting to and from work.

Stravinsky’s _The Firebird_ buzzes in his ears, a frantic cacophony of sound that would probably put most people’s nerves on edge, but the whir of the orchestra soothes Q. Silence and meditation have always made him anxious, and it takes sensory over-saturation for him to achieve peace — or the closest thing to it. 

There are no vacant seats, so Q stands and grips one of the poles, strangers pressed against his shoulders and his back. He shuts his eyes and tries to imagine where Bond might be right now. Last he checked, the agent’s vitals were still steady and normal, as they have been for over 24 hours. If 007 is in distress, his body isn’t showing any symptoms.

And yet, Q has been in the business long enough to know that long stretches of serenity are not normal in their field. 

He’s beginning to wonder if Bond is hiding something.

His is one of the last stops on the line, but in the meantime Q watches as all the people in nice suits and designer dresses clear out, destined to file into the towers of steel and glass located in the posh districts. When he’s off the train, he straightens the messenger bag’s strap across his chest and keeps his gaze downcast as he walks up the sidewalk to the flat. Though the news depicts his neighborhood as a hotbed of drug and hooligan activity, he’s never had much trouble with unruly youth, save the one time a group of teens robbed him of his wallet. Their leader, a tall young man wearing a grey hoodie, claimed he had a knife, but Q never saw it. He didn’t ask for proof of its presence either. Instead, he simply handed over his wallet and returned home to cancel his credit cards.

Path of least resistance, and all that.

Q ascends the steps to the front door and notices one of the flower pots resting on the stoop is broken — possibly the act of vandalism, but more likely a sign of dilapidation. He exhales through his nose and makes a mental note to replace it. This whole block of flats are remnants of World War II architecture, the holdouts of an era yet-to-be gentrified with sleek apartment units that will force out the poor and elderly, implemented and constructed by a tribe that believes all old things are subpar and must be upgraded.

As a proponent of cutting edge technology, Q understands that impulse, but he doesn’t always agree with it, especially after seeing firsthand how sometimes age and experience are better than the latest fad.

His keys jangle in the lock as he opens the door and shuffles inside. He removes his earbuds and wraps the cord around the iPod before shedding the bag, duffle coat, and shoes and leaves them in the foyer. Then he walks into the kitchen and smiles when he sees his mother stirring something in a pot atop the stove.

“Heya, mum, all right?” he asks, stooping down a bit to kiss her cheek.

“Avery, love! I didn’t hear you come in. How was work? Dinner will be ready soon,” she cries, smiling brightly at him. Atop her head, grey hair rests in curlers, eyes ever-bulging a bit behind the thick spectacles lenses. 

He sits down at their small kitchen table and reclines against the wall so he can watch her shuffle about. She seems in good spirits today, and judging by the fact that she isn’t parked in front of the telly, the arthritis must have retreated at least a little while. Must be the new medicine — the tiny white pills that cost £50 a pop — the ones a colleague of a colleague recommended on a trial basis from one of Britain’s top pharmaceutical companies. Q managed to pull some strings and get his mum on a list of patients, and the medication has worked wonders for her. Unfortunately, he still has to pay out-of-pocket for it.

Still, it’s worth the obscene cost to see her moving around again.

“Work was fine. Busy,” he amends after she casts a curious look over her shoulder. She smiles, satisfied to hear he’s been productive.

Mum has always been extremely proud of his ascension along the ladder of respectability — from scoring top marks at school, to securing the best academic scholarships and attending the finest universities, to his recruitment by MI6. _The youngest department head ever_ , Mum can frequently be heard bragging to some distant relative via telephone. It’s nice to know she’s so chuffed, and her affections serve as motivation during the long hours at work when Tanner is being a busybody, or the engineers are dodging him, or Bond has lost yet another extremely expensive bit of technological wonder.

His gaze shifts to the flowered wallpaper as he again thinks about 007’s location and status. He touches his pocket where the outline of the flash drive is prominent against the material of his slacks. When he looks up, Mum is staring at him expectantly.

“Sorry, did you say something?” he asks.

She smiles fondly at him, the nearby drawer squeaking on hinges as she opens it and fetches a ladle. “Poor thing, you’ve run yourself ragged again. I do hope those intelligence people appreciate how hard my Avery works for them,” she says, serving them both generous bowls of a stew comprised of bits of meat and vegetables.

Q isn’t sure what kind of stew it is, exactly, but it looks warm and therefore it’ll be lovely.

“They do,” he assures her, flashing a smile as he takes the bowl and spoon from her, and they sit together over the meal, quietly eating for a while.

 _British intelligence_ , is the answer she gives whenever anyone asks what he does for a living. It’s a good lie — omission rather than obfuscation — a title that could mean almost anything, but which sounds important enough to intimidate most people into silence. Mum has no idea what his job actually entails. He usually need only begin prattling on about gadgets and microchips for a few moments before her eyes glaze over and she punctuates the conversation by saying how proud she is of him.

All she knows is that he’s in intelligence and brings home a generous paycheck that keeps her in a two-story flat that would have been gutted and renovated into modern units years ago had Q not kept handing the landlord the lavish rent checks month after month. She also knows her medical bills are no longer an issue, paid off long ago by her son, who is also the reason she’s no longer paralyzed in pain upstairs in bed. Occasionally, she also comes to him with morose tales of some relative who’s fallen on hard times, and he pays for their happiness as well.

It’s his way of saying thank you to his Mum, a single parent, who had to make do when his father abandoned them all those years ago. His memories of her working double shifts are vivid, and he made a promise to himself long ago that he would never again allow her to weep in terror at the sight of stacked, unpaid bills.

He probably could afford his own flat, but living with her ensures he has a permanent savings nest in case of emergencies, and also he’s nearby in case she needs him in the middle of the night when the pain of her arthritis was sometimes so severe he would kneel by her bed, holding her hand as she wept.

But she hasn’t had an episode that severe since she began taking the new medicine, and Q feels pleased that he is the source of her second lease on life.

“Go get some rest, my love,” she says to him, touching his forehead affectionately before raking her fingers through his thick mop of hair. Mum takes the empty bowl and spoon and walks over to the sink to wash the dishes and pot.

He offers to help, but she shoos him away with a kiss to the cheek, so he gathers his bag from the foyer and trudges upstairs. His bedroom is on the small side — large enough to hold a bed and a desk and little else — but it’s been his since he was a little boy, and while the posters of Doctor Who and Monty Python are long gone, it’s filled with precious memories that comfort him after a long day of equipping agents with tools of menace. Q changes into pajamas and boots up the desk computer, a state-of-the-art bit of machinery that sticks out like a sore thumb against the retro 60s interior of his boudoir. 

He holds the flash drive in his palm for a moment, having a last second crisis of conscience. Perhaps he shouldn’t read the file. Maybe he’s better off not knowing what’s really happening with Bond.

The hesitation passes and Q inserts the drive into the back of the monitor, devoting a couple minutes to decrypting the file. Elbows braced on the edge of his desk, he hunches forward and spends about an hour reading through Bond’s extensive psychological profile. 

There is much he knew or could have inferred: Bond is deeply upset by the death of the previous M, who he considered a mother figure, and he harbors anger and resentment towards MI6, an organization that has demanded everything from him, and which, at times, has turned its back on the agent.

But there are surprises too. For example, the fact that Bond failed his psychological evaluation the first time he came back from his unofficial retirement. Failing it might actually be an understatement, he realizes, as he scrolls past red flag words like “Unstable” and “Hostile.” However, all of those diagnoses pale in comparison to the final recommendation, which Q ends up staring at for a very long time:

_Patient most likely suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and is unlikely to ask for aid in the field when he experiences distress. Final recommendation: Remove from field work immediately and permanently._

His fingers are suddenly numb and cold as he clicks out of the file and permanently deletes it from the drive. M — the new M — must be aware of all of this, and yet the higher-ups have decided to send Bond back into the field. While he’s certainly not a psychological professional, he knows enough about a PTSD diagnosis to be certain that sending Bond into hostile surroundings is not only irresponsible — it might be a death sentence.

It’s that thought that sends him frantically rummaging through his bag for his iPad so he can check on Bond’s vitals. They’re still steady, but now the lines and figures have taken on a menacing quality. For the second time in a single day, Q wonders: Is Bond actually this unwaveringly competent, or is he hiding something?

***

The rest of the week carries on the same: hours of programing and coding, overseeing the logistics of the entire department, and the occasional meeting with M (Tanner ever-looming over his shoulder) during which Q assures his superior that everything is fine with Bond.

Though, one day, he does ask to contact Bond in the field, which is a highly irregular request, and potentially dangerous. The whole reason Double O agents go dark is because they’re engaging in close monitoring of targets or they’re deep undercover — all situations where a sudden intrusion by Q might be life-threatening. But he’s run out of ideas about how to check in on Bond, and his concern for the agent is boiling over.

M stares at him for a long while, fingertips drumming on the mahogany surface of his desk before he answers: “No. You’ll continue to monitor his vitals, but you will not directly contact Bond.”

So that’s that then.

Q watches Bond’s chart more than he should, and sometimes becomes distracted from his other tasks, drifting mentally as he watches the moving lines, wondering if Bond might be in distress, but is experienced enough to know how to control his breathing and heart rate. He finds comfort in the belief that such discipline would be impossible in the midst of a real panic attack. Q believes he would know if Bond was in trouble because that’s his job.

He always knows when Bond needs him.

Eventually, he gets into the habit of leaving on his iPad even at night, the tablet plugged into a wall nearby his bed, so the gently glowing screen illuminates half his face as he sleeps, and is positioned so that if an alert flashes, it will wake him up. One night, the screen flashes to life at 4 AM and Q nearly springs out of bed to unplug it and examine what’s happening. Everything is blurry until he fetches his glasses from the floor and adjusts them on the bridge of his nose. Bond’s heart rate has skyrocketed suddenly, as has his blood pressure.

Something is happening, but upon checking the agent’s location, he sees Bond is resting sedentary at base location. He’s not running. He’s not fighting — at least not with another person.

Q’s fingertips hovers over the green “Contact” button for a split second as he recalls M’s direct orders not to reach out to Bond in the field. After a moment, he taps the button and waits for Bond to click the small headset embedded in his ear.A series of soft beeps emits from the template’s speakers — each marking a ring on Bond’s end. The agent doesn’t answer until the twelfth beep.

“Yeah?” Bond’s voice fills the room, breathless and ragged.

“Bond, are you all right?” Q asks, watching as his heart rate levels momentarily. Eerie silence is the only reply, and after a few moments, he adds: “It’s Q.”

The heart rate and other readings are almost normal again by the time Bond gruffly replies: “I bloody well know who it is.”

Bond disconnects the call after that.

The next morning, he has no choice but to report what happened to M. Some naive part of him assumes his superior will be as alarmed as he feels, and will demand Bond be pulled from the field immediately, but instead he asks to see the vitals chart, which Q has printed out for him (including the early morning spike). M considers the information for a moment and says, “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

He sends Q back to the lab.

Nothing changes. The protocol and mission remain the same, and so Q watches the screen as much as he can throughout the day, and keeps the template close to him at night. In the early hours of the following morning, the screen once again lights up and Q already knows before putting on his glasses that Bond is having another panic attack — perhaps a PTSD-related flashback. The monitoring screen indicates the agent is still at base, which reenforces his fears. This time, Q doesn’t hesitate to contact Bond.

“Bond, breathe,” he says as soon as the call connects. “It’s Q. You’re in Egypt on a mission. Breathe.” Like the last time, silence is the only answer, but now Q understands the source of the delay. Bond is probably breathless and confused, perhaps sitting in bed, trying to make sense of his strange surroundings. The timer on the screen is still counting, which means Bond hasn’t hung up yet, so he adds: “I’m going to recommend to M you be pulled from the field—“

“No,” he growls. “Not ’til the job is done.”

Bond ends the call.

***

Weeks later, Q learns of Bond’s return through the rumor mill. All of MI6’s headquarters buzzes with a nervous energy upon his arrival, and he’s just put down his bag and shed his jacket when Louis, one of the engineers, hurries up to him and declares: “Bond trashed Dr. Griffin’s office.”

He consciously refuses to react, instead opting to calmly sit at his desk and log into the mainframe. Q doesn’t like to encourage his employees to gossip like this, and he knows hysteria breeds an especially venomous kind of unprofessionalism. “You saw this first hand?” he asks.

“Well, no—I mean, I heard it from a very reliable source—“ Louis stammers.

Q peers over the tops of his glasses and cuts him off: “Please don’t gossip in front of the other engineers. Or to me,” he pauses for a thoughtful second: “Or to anyone.”

Louis, flushed and embarrassed, scurries away soon afterwards, and Q checks Bond’s vitals to see he has indeed returned to London, and is currently at the shooting range, probably for additional arms training. He checks the log history, and sure enough, Bond was in Dr. Griffin’s office this morning from 8-9 AM. He supposes that’s enough time to _trash_ someone’s office, as Louis might put it.

It’s at that moment that Q decides he’s not going to get any answers from M.

He needs to go speak with Dr. Griffin.

Q tentatively knocks on the doctor’s office door, and when Griffin calls for him to enter, he freezes for a second in the doorway when he notices the couch is overturned and the doctor is stooped down, gathering papers from the floor.

“Oh dear,” Q sighs. It looks as though Louis’s sources are correct.

Griffin sighs, beleaguered, and nods in agreement. “Indeed.”

The doctor is a middle-aged portly man, who is always wearing vests, and a delicate pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the middle of his nose. Q hurries in to help him clean things up — gather the papers and sort the files on his desk, and then the two of them right the couch and push it back against the wall. It’s very heavy, and Q tries to imagine the adrenaline spike required for Bond to have overturned the piece of furniture on his own.

“I don’t suppose you came here to help me clean,” Griffin astutely notes once he’s seated at his desk again, flushed and a little breathless. He plucks a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at a line of perspiration on his upper lip.

Q smiles slightly, aiming for charmingly sheepish. “No, I was rather hoping you could give me some insight into what’s happening with Bond.”

The doctor gazes at him over the tops of his glasses as if to say _you know better than that_. “All our records on agents are confidential.”

“Yes, doctor, I understand, but I’m afraid withholding information prevents _me_ from doing _my job_ ,” he counters, adding: “Bond’s vital readings were all over the map, and when I spoke with him—“

“You spoke with him?” the doctor interrupts, suddenly hanging on his every word.

Q shakes his head. “Not long. Just a few words, but—“

Suddenly, Griffin stands, extending a hand into the air to cut off whatever Q was going to say next. “This is very important, Q. Tell me what happened.”

So he does — as best he can remember it, including the panic attack, how Q talked to him until Bond’s vitals had neutralized again, even the curt goodbyes that punctuated their every interaction. He doesn’t think the conversations are significant, but the eager look on the doctor’s face is beginning to make him reassess.

“Fascinating…” the doctor mumbles, sitting once more and staring off into the distance, “Fascinating.”

Q clears his throat. “Yes, well, I was rather hoping you could shine some light on what’s going on.”

“Q, listen very carefully: Bond clearly trusts you, and there may be a time when he reaches out to you for help, but he may not call it that. He may just…want to talk to you.”

He blinks owlishly. “Me?” The idea seems absurd. He’s never had an intimate interaction with Bond, nor has the agentever called him during their personal time to confide his deepest secrets. “Why me?”

Griffin shrugs. “I’m not sure, but from what we know, he relaxes when he speaks to you, and when someone else asks about his personal well-being, we know what happens,” he says, gesturing to the office, where various bric-a-brac still lay in disarray. “I’m just asking you make yourself available for that possibility.”

***

The doctor’s comments distract him the rest of the day, during his commute home, and even throughout dinner with Mum. Of course, she immediately notices his diverted attention, and that he’s barely eating the pork chops in front of him. 

“What’s the matter, lovie?” she asks, frowning in concern.

Realizing he must be emoting his apprehension, Q quickly smiles slightly — just enough to reassure it’s not serious. “Oh, just work. One of my superiors handed me a task that I’m finding….difficult to wrap my head around.”

“Well, if there’s anyone who can do it, it’s you,” Mum answers confidently, which of course is _always_ her answer. In her mind, Q is the smartest, most wonderful young man on the entire planet.

He hums thoughtfully, gripping the fork, running the prongs along the edge of the pork chop where there’s a bit of fat. “Normally, I’d agree, but this deals with some, erm, interpersonal office relations,” he says, peering over the top of his glasses in a meaningful way.

“Ah, I see. Well, Avery, it’s like I always say, if you can’t say anything nice…”

She leaves the unsaid bit hanging in the air. It’s a platitude, a useless commonplace statement, really, and yet Mum’s words stay with him throughout the remainder of the meal, as he washes up for bed, and even as he codes for a couple hours, and then lays in bed. He folds his arms behind his head and stares at the ceiling, replaying her words in his brain over and over.

Q has always had a difficult time making friends and maintaining relationships. Starting from primary school, Mum occasionally tried to set him up on playdates, but he inevitably failed at making any longterm friendships because he always considered himself smarter and cleverer than the other children. Of course, that was true, but he didn’t make a secret of the reality, and people aren’t overly fond of socializing with a know-it-all. 

Upon entering adulthood, he failed to participate in any relationships due to a combination of ego and social awkwardness. Again, Mum tried to intervene by gently suggesting he contact so-and-so because she was single and available. When he turned eighteen, she switched the suggested pronoun and began pointing out when so-and-so’s _son_ was single, which was closer to Q’s preferred gender, but he still couldn’t summon the motivation or desire to pursue any leads.

The truth is: Q is content on his own. All the other youth around him, consumed by their raging hormones, obsessed with pornography and sex, are like a foreign tribe to him. Many believe Q is asexual, but that’s not exactly right either. He’s most certainly attracted to individuals, usually men, and he masturbates when the mood strikes him, but sex and intimate relationships are not his main objectives.

Prioritizing in this fashion has led to a life of isolation and fierce commitment to work, which in turn has led to success and the ability to buy Mum’s medication, so he considers it a fair trade.

However, it might be time now to, as Mum says, say something nice or keep his mouth shut. If Bond is, in his own way, asking for help, it’s Q’s duty to make himself available and show he’s up for that kind of thing.

Meaning, friendship.

***

The following day, he’s at his desk — standing, because that’s how he insisted the work station be built — when Bond walks into the room. He hears the doors open (the sterile hiss and slide), and an eerie silence settles across the room. The normal bustle and chatter of the engineers and programmers dies down completely, but Q keeps clicking away at his keyboard, occasionally glancing up at the huge floor-to-ceiling monitoring screen in front of him to double-check the code from a different perspective.

He’s aware Bond is walking towards him, then politely standing just behind (and to the right) of Q’s shoulder, perhaps watching him work.

“Yes?” he asks, pleasant and detached, hyper-aware everyone is probably watching them, and looking to Q for guidance about how they should behave towards Bond. He wants to convey nothing has changed, even though their most infamous agent has just experienced a very public meltdown.

“I need a new gun,” Bond replies casually.

Q exhales sharply through his nose. “What happened to the last one I gave you?”

He can practically see Bond’s smirk when the man replies: “Fell off a rather tall cliff.”

 _Bloody Double Os_. Q carefully schools his features as he says, “Follow me,” and steps away from the work station, walking to the adjacent armory hidden behind opaque (and soundproof) sliding black doors. He’s yet to actually look at Bond, instead keeping his gaze locked on the spread of Walther PP series pistols. He locates the palm-print reader version and hands it to Bond, which is when he glances up to actually consider the man.

He looks exhausted, great big bags under his shining eyes, hanging off more crow’s feet than he remembers. Bond has aged about ten years in a few weeks, and he must automatically read Q’s thoughts because he smirks wryly: “We can’t all look as though we’ve just finished primary school.”

Q ignores the dig. “What happened in Dr. Griffin’s office?” he asks.

The corner of Bond’s right eye twitches and he drops his gaze under the guise of checking the gun. “He asks too many bloody questions. Besides, M cleared me, before…”

He never finishes the thought, but Q knows his meaning: the former M cleared him for field work before she died. “You know she forged your psychological report — that she lied,” he says, profoundly relieved none of the guns in the armory are loaded when Bond’s head snaps up and he levels an icy glare at him.

“Of course I know that. Are we done here?” he growls.

Pressing his lips together, he thinks for a moment — analyzing the pros and cons of what he’s about to offer. All the objective evidence suggests he should remain quiet, but then he remembers his Mum’s words about the importance of being _kind_ , and in a rare moment of instinctual spontaneity, Q decides not to follow the evidence and to instead obey his emotions.

“If you ever need to talk….I’m here.”

He practically winces at the clumsy words, and the sentiment doesn’t appear to land any smoother because Bond furrows his brow and stares at him as if he’s lost his mind.

“Right…we’ll have a real heart-to-heart, shall we?” the man smirks, and Q rolls his eyes, stalking away before Bond can tease him further, though his voice rings at his back before he can clear the doors: “Share our emotions? Have a good cry?”

***

That afternoon, Bond is practicing his accuracy at the firing range when the arms instructor makes a slightly disparaging comment about the agent’s aim. Bond turns, levels the gun at the man, and backs him into a corner. According to the gossip mill, Bond was screaming threats until he was red in the face, and the instructor fell to his knees, sobbing and begging for his life.

Ordinarily, Q wouldn’t believe it, but he’s watched the security footage a dozen times and it’s definitely Bond. 

Calm, cool, collected Bond nearly shot a work colleague in cold blood.

He’s not surprised when M summons him.

“A month’s suspension, no pay,” he recaps, and Q can only nod weakly in agreement. Bond should consider himself lucky that’s all he got. If he was any other agent, he would have been fired — most likely jailed. “I teased the possibility of mandatory counseling and he told me to, I’m quoting him here, _go fuck myself_.”

Q winces. All of this is so unlike Bond. Yes, he’s always been a bit of a rogue agent — some less generous persons might call him a loose cannon — but he’s always been a more or less reliable asset. He’s different now: wild and unhinged. Unpredictable, and MI6 _hates_ unpredictable.

There’s nothing more he can say because there’s no defense of Bond’s actions, so instead he nods and simply states: “I approve of your decision, sir.”

But just because he approves of M’s handling of the situation doesn’t mean that the events of the past few weeks don’t still niggle at his brain. He’s standing at his work station, staring blankly at the screen, when it occurs to him that Bond might have left MI6 so suddenly that his superiors didn’t think to retrieve the agent’s ear piece from him. It’s a long shot, but Q plugs his headset into the template and calls Bond.

Sure enough, he answers on the third ring, though he doesn’t speak. There’s simply a click and the disconcerting hum of silence, occasionally broken by what sounds like crunching gravel. Bond is walking on an unpaved path somewhere.

“Bond?” he asks, voice pitched low so prying ears won’t overhear their conversation. The agent doesn’t answer, and yet Q is certain the man is listening, though he’s at a loss of what to say. Obviously, Bond doesn’t want his help, and Q’s behavior is now bordering on pathetic, and yet he can’t stop offering help. He’s not sure why the impulse keeps seizing him, considering he’s never before gone out of his way to offer help to someone who so clearly doesn’t want it. “I’m here if you need—“

“Leave it, Q,” Bond replies, but there is no anger in his voice — only fatigue and resignation.

He hangs up after that.

***

He can’t bear the idea of heading straight home after work because he knows exactly how the rest of the evening will unfold: Mum will have dinner ready, and they’ll eat together at the table whereupon she’ll inevitably notice he’s distracted and sullen, and he’ll be forced to talk about Bond and what’s happened to him. A naive part of him believes if he doesn’t talk about it, Bond will go on vacation, get himself sorted, and return as though nothing has happened.

Q is so scatterbrained that he puts in his earbuds, but fails to play any music. It’s not until the tube has travelled three stops that he realizes his mistake, and when he looks up, notices the train has reached a part of the city renown for its high quantity of pubs. Though he’s not a big believer in signs, Q takes the hint and alights the train, locates the nearest staircase, and ascends to street level. There’s a pub directly across the street — a rundown, faux-Irish establishment, and he thinks _good enough._

He orders a pint and finds a back corner booth that’s poorly lit. It’s perfect. Settling onto the bench, he hugs the wall, miserable face buried in the glass. There’s a lovely waitress who occasionally comes by to refresh his drink, and he keeps leaving five-pound notes on the table for her in thanks.

Three pints into the evening, he’s well on his way to a decent buzz when Bond slides into the booth across from him. 

It’s such a surreal sight that Q simply stares at him as he polishes off the foam at the bottom of his glass. He then sets it onto the table soundlessly and squints a little bit. It’s definitely Bond, though he’s dressed down a bit, still donning a collared shirt, but the top two buttons are undone, and he’s smirking like a man who hasn’t just been thrown out on his ear by one of the most powerful intelligence agencies in the world.

“Are you old enough to drink?” he greets.

“Ha, ha,” Q smirks. “Those jokes never get tired,” he adds as he waves to the waitress and points to Bond, indicating he’d like a pint for his companion. “How did you know I was here?”

In response, the man simply raises his brows and smirks because, right, of course, 007 and all that. Bond wrinkles his nose in disdain when the ale is presented to him, and Q grins into his fourth pint, knowing the man is accustomed to hard liquor. It’s rather enjoyable seeing the world’s greatest spy briefly thrown out of his comfort zone, even if they’re only dealing with spirits.

“Children these days,” he grumbles, face pulled into a wicked grimace as he tastes the beer. “The rubbish you drink.”

Before he can overthink the need for professionalism, Q bursts out laughing, the noise surprising them both — Bond, who sets down his drink and smirks across the table at him, and Q himself, who covers his mouth to stifle the sound. He’s giddy from the alcohol, but also because this whole situation is so strange. Bond seems more relaxed now that they’re outside MI6, but he’s still the man who this morning aimed a loaded gun between the eyes of their colleague. 

Still, his posture is relaxed, eyes shining as he watches Q curiously.

It almost seems like a shame to bring up anything depressing, but he knows it would be irresponsible not to. Wrapping his fingers around the glass, he cradles it anxiously as he stares back at Bond. “You have nightmares, right? Really vivid ones?”

Unlike before, Bond doesn’t get angry or dismissive, but the twitch returns and he shakes his head a little. “Q…” he warns.

Knowing a deflection is on the horizon, he hurries to finish his thought: “Because the disruption in your vitals came at base, when you were in bed, so I know you were sleeping. And you were disoriented when you woke up. It’s normal, you know. Post-traumatic stress disorder—“

“Stop with that bloody jargon,” Bond growls, the same old anger bubbling to the surface. Q grows silent, afraid of a public scene. He doesn’t want to be the reason Bond goes to jail. Perhaps sensing he’s spurned the one person left on his side, Bond’s expression softens when he adds: “They used to call it Shell shock, you know, then battle fatigue, then — what was it? — operational exhaustion,” he sighs, shaking his head. “They’re all euphemisms for the same thing, Q: leftover filth from the dirty business of killing.”

He doesn’t know what to say in response. At the research and development level, it’s easy not to wrestle with the moral ramifications of their business. Q builds toys and gifts them to agents, and they’re the ones pulling triggers and getting their hands dirty. At MI6, they compartmentalize the business of killing to avoid a moment like this — when the full weight of espionage comes crashing down on the shoulders of a single man. Q’s read the file — he knows why Bond was in Egypt, and all the nice sterile language therein: to oversee and encourage the development of dissidents friendly towards the west.

Subverting democracy. Standard fare.

“You’re just following orders,” Q blurts unthinkingly. He’ll later blame the alcohol.

Bond smirks wryly. “Isn’t that what they always say?”

Suddenly, the idea of drinking more loses its appeal. Q knows this isn’t a conversation they should be having when he’s not thinking clearly. “I read the manifesto. This wasn’t an assassination mission, so what happened?”

Bond’s eyes never allow him to casually monitor anyone or anything, and this moment is no exception. His gaze cuts across the dimly lit corner like two lasers as he answers: “Call it a cumulative effect. M dying…just the last in a parade of death and misery…” Q has one file in particular memorized: Vesper Lynd, beautiful and impossibly glamorous, a woman with a past and so many secrets that eventually they got her killed. As if they’re imagining the same woman, Bond smirks and shakes his head. “When someone you know dies, you begin to reassess your life.”

“But you’re the best,” Q naively declares, as if that fact is enough to bury all Bond’s misery.

The man chuckles into his pint glass, polishing off the rest of the ale in two gulps. “What do I owe you?” he asks, gesturing to the empty glass. Q simply shakes his head and Bond nods, sliding from the booth. “Cheers,” he says.

Then he leaves. 

***

Work is dull. 

Q carries on as he always has: coding, monitoring, and occasionally escorting an agent to the armory to assist them in suiting up. But none of the agents are Bond, and so they treat him like a valet or doorman — an ancillary underling of no significance. As far as they’re concerned, Q and his ilk are number-crunchers, weak betas who leave the _real_ work to the actual spies. 

Despite all the teasing he endures, Q knows that Bond respects him. He can’t say the same about the other agents.

Headquarters still hums with anxiety post-Bond breakdown, and Q is sure his staff still gossip behind his back, but at least they’re respectful enough not to do it in his presence. Everyone seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop — perhaps for M to fire Bond, but nothing has happened yet. In the meantime, he keeps his head down and works, and after each day, he returns home and helps his Mum with little chores around the house: the laundry, changing lightbulbs, and when she needs help with something beyond his realm of handiness, he phones a repairman.

Everything is carrying on in a rather ordinary fashion until he goes downstairs one night to get a glass of water, walks through the living room, and discovers Bond sitting on his Mum’s couch.

He staggers to a halt and reaches up to close the top of his robe, believing for a ridiculous moment that he’ll be able to hide the fact that he’s wearing gingham pajamas — more ammo for Bond to use against him, in addition to his wild bed head, bleary gaze blinking owlishly behind his glasses, and unsteady figure swaying atop bare feet. Fortunately, Bond doesn’t appear to have broken in to haze him because he simply points to the living room window and says: “You need new locks.”

 _Right_. Q nods slowly. “Want a drink?”

“Cheers,” Bond replies.

Neither he nor his mum are frequent drinkers, so all he can find is a bottle of creme de menthe, which he sheepishly presents, along with two glasses. Bond frowns as Q mumbles a soft, “Sorry,” but apparently it will do because the man pours them each half a glass of the minty abomination. Bond takes a wary sip as Q sits down in an armchair nearby the couch. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he inquires, attempting to keep his tone light even though it’s clear Bond is in distress and they both know why he’s here.

“Did I ever tell you about the Indonesia job, in Jakarta?” Bond asks, seemingly apropos of nothing.

“In '93?” Q asks, even though he already knows that’s the exact date because he’s read all of 007’s case history and his photographic memory will not allow him to un-see the details. 

Bond nods slowly, cupping the bottom of the glass as he stares into the green pool. “Assassination mission. Target was this bloke, a political dissident, who opposed the neoliberal crowd. That was the first time M sent me on a mission like that…” he says, pausing to take another careful sip, even though it’s clear he hates the taste of the stuff. “Before that, I never second-guessed the targets.”

Q nods slowly. It’s easy to understand why as he reflects upon the laundry list of mad villains Bond has disposed of. “But you never completed that mission,” he recalls. 

Bond smiles weakly. “Not everything is in your little files, Q,” he sighs, setting down the glass. “I hid in the bloke’s flat, but he never showed. His family, however…” 

Bile rises in his throat. Now the details are coming back to him: Adi Dahan, age 37, a wife and a young daughter, aged eight years. Bond doesn’t need to tell him the rest. They came home, discovered him, and he had no choice — or perhaps he did have a choice, which is the whole problem. Bond chose the mission over his moral compass — over human decency.

“Christ…” Q sighs, his glass resting on the coffee table, completely forgotten.

Bond polishes off the liquor and sets down his glass. “Indeed. I suppose the sunny side of the nasty business is Dahan retired from public life out of grief, so I did complete my mission in a roundabout way,” he smirks, leaning back against the couch. “For queen and country.”

A casual observer would mistake Bond’s cavalier attitude for insensitivity, or viciousness, but Q knows better. He can tell from the pulse at the corner of his eye, and the way Bond’s Adam’s apple bobs, that the man is barely holding himself together. His past deeds are haunting him — waking him in the middle of the night, the clawing, screaming shadows chasing him every minute of the day, robbing him of a moment’s peace. 

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks, a selfish moment because he needs to understand his role in all this.

He wearily rubs at his face, smirking a bit. “I suppose because you’re part of it, but you’re not. You understand, but…you’re not fully a company man yet.”

Q might take offense if he wasn’t so sure Bond means the comment as a compliment. He’s fought very hard to be a company man — to ascend the ladder within MI6 and present himself as loyal and dependable — but he is rather removed from the ugly reality on the ground. For the first time ever, he’s relieved there’s a buffer between himself and the missions.

“Is that all?” he asks.

Bond smiles wearily: “Well, that, and I suppose I trust you more than anyone else.”

He’s grateful the lights are off because he’s banking on the shadows hiding the flush of his cheeks and the crimson tint of his ears. Q isn’t quite sure how to process the compliment, or the incredibly intimate nature of Bond’s confession, so he stands up suddenly, knees very nearly banging into the table as he declares: “I’ll fetch a blanket and pillow for you. Feel free to spend the night.”

He hurries from the room, but hears Bond’s quiet response at his back: “Cheers.”

***

James Bond is asleep on their couch and Q is afraid to put the kettle on lest the percolation wake him. His morning ritual is as follows: shower, morning tea and breakfast with Mum, out the door by 7:30 AM. But 007 staying in their humble home has thrown a wrench in things, namely the flow of his routine. Q is standing in front of the stove, staring at the kettle and trying to figure out how to silently make a cup of tea, when his Mum walks into the room, frowning and gazing curiously at him.

“Who’s that man on the sofa?” she asks.

Q doesn’t know how to begin explaining who Bond is, so he tries his best to present him as a normal human being: “James. Work colleague. Drank too much at the pub last night, so I said he could sleep it off here.”

Which, of course, Mum completely misinterprets. Her whole face lights up because this is the first time Q has brought home a friend. “I say, he’s handsome, isn’t he?” she whispers conspiratorially, and there aren’t enough shadows in the world to hide Q’s blush this time.

“Mum, _hush_ ,” he hisses, turning the stove on because, to hell with it, Bond is going to have to wake up sooner than later.

But it’s too late. She smells blood in the water and smiles brightly at him. “You must invite your friend to dinner as well, Avery.”

Q is about to shoot down that idea permanently by explaining Bond isn’t the type of man to enjoy meals at his work colleague’s Mum’s house when a voice interrupts them: “I’d love to.” Q wheels around so fast he nearly knocks both kettle and cup from the counter, only to see Bond standing in the kitchen doorway.

He has no idea how long the man has been there.

Mum is completely oblivious to the fact that her only son currently wants to melt through the floor cracks, and she hurries forth to greet Bond. “Morning, love! I’m Moira. So lovely to meet you,” she says, smiling brightly when Bond stoops down to kiss both her cheeks. 

“Moira, thank you so much for the use of your sofa. I’m James,” he says, ever-the-cool customer, composed and charming as he sticks to Q’s lie. Must be all the years of practice as a spy.

“Our pleasure, love. Let me make you something to eat!” Mum offers, hurrying over to the pantry.

Once her back is to them, Bond smirks and mouths, _Avery?_ , and Q attempts to ignore him, walking to the table and sitting down because Mum is in full-blown homemaker mode now, and she won’t allow them to help. He’s probably going to be late to work because, by the looks of things, she’s making them a full English breakfast.

He bows his chin and tries to focus on the screen of his iPhone, but he can see Bond sit down at the other end of the table, and he senses the man is watching him. Q feels incredibly exposed and vulnerable here in his childhood home, dressed in a collared shirt/sweater set that he’s suddenly acutely aware makes him look about twelve-years-old. That, combined with the presence of his mother, must be making Bond positively bemused because it reaffirms every stereotype he labeled Q within seconds of meeting him.

Refusing to look at Bond is his own personal protest because he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how uncomfortable and embarrassed he is. Mum fills the silence, chattering about all kinds of gossip that involves people Bond doesn’t know, and yet he’s perfectly attentive and inquisitive — responding in all the right ways and asking all the appropriate questions — and Q knows his Mum is utterly charmed. 

“So tell me, James,” she says, setting down a plate of admittedly delicious-looking food in front of them, along with two piping hot cups of tea. “What do you do at MI6?”

Q’s head snaps up. “ _Mum_ ,” he hisses, horrified that she’s actually attempting to get Bond to divulge classified information, albeit unwittingly.

Bond chuckles, eyes shining in amusement. “That’s quite all right, Avery,” he says, deliberately lingering on the pronunciation of his name, newly acquired information Q can already tell Bond intends to use to torture him. Q scowls at him in return, praying his cheeks only feel warm due to the heavy material of the sweater and consuming hot tea, and not because he’s flushed. He diverts his attention to the plate in front of him, shoveling forkfuls of eggs and hash browns into his mouth before he says anything rude. Bond continues: “I’m afraid I can’t disclose the exact details, Moira—“

“Oh, of course not,” she interjects, smiling shyly. “I meant, generally speaking.”

Bond pauses thoughtfully, humming. “I suppose you could say I deal with negotiations,” he says, spearing a sausage link with his fork.

Q catches sight of the wall clock and stands up quickly. “I’m late,” he murmurs, bending down to kiss Mum on the cheek. “I’ll see you this evening,” he says — directing the goodbye to his mother, and his shoulders tense up a bit when Bond replies instead:

“Have a nice day, Avery.”

***

It’s difficult to focus at work. As soon as he gets settled at his station, Tanner hands him a new mission from M — _top priority_ — which means he must drop all his other open cases and focus on monitoring a warlord the British government has been paying for the past few years. Every hour, he’s expected to log the target’s activities into MI6’s mainframe so M can then take the news to higher-ups in the government.

Mostly, the warlord hangs around outside his bungalow where he’s surrounded by an army of sycophantic underlings and beautiful women. Q watches him through a cafe’s camera across the road, zoomed in on the warlord’s sweaty face, his white grin stretched around the butt of a cigar. The man’s day seems to be comprised of delegating orders and loitering, which gives Q’s brain lots of time to drift and consider his new living situation: namely, James Bond sitting at his Mum’s kitchen table, chatting over a cup of tea.

“All right?” He looks over to find Moneypenny perched upon the edge of his desk, pretty as you please, dressed smartly in a pencil skirt and lovely cardigan. She smiles playfully at him. “M’s got you watching him, ay? Dull business, I expect.”

He smirks, shaking his head a little. Most of the busywork M sends him is boring, and quite honestly, beneath his pedigree, but he’s also conscious of the fact that he’d be a right prat to say something like that aloud. “Just doing my duty,” he says, wagering the quip presents the right amount of deference and sarcasm.

“Oh yeah,” she replies, snickering and leaning over to squint at the screen. Beside the warlord is a pretty young girl wearing shorts, her crossed legs oiled and glistening. The man watches her, and Q imagines him as a cartoon wolf, eyes bulging and tongue lolling. “Is there anything more pathetic than a pawn who thinks he’s a big man?”

His fingertips tap on the keyboard and the camera zooms in, cutting the girl out of frame. “A man desperate for more power,” he answers, casting a sly grin her way. He takes a screenshot and sends the update to M, along with the update: _Target still chatting with companion_.

Moneypenny chuckles, humming in agreement before she sobers and leans forward, voice pitched low for the sake of privacy. “How are you?” she asks, tone serious, and Q knows she means in the wake of Bond’s meltdown. The whole of MI6 has been somber since the nasty business, everyone walking on pins and needles as if Bond’s momentary lapse of sanity is contagious and they’re all doomed to the same fate. Theirs is a chaotic business, but there are a few reliable constants such as 007’s presence in the institution that they could always rely upon.

But no more. 

It’s as though an immutable law, like gravity, has suddenly been revoked by the universe.

“I’m fine,” he replies, an image of a worn Bond seated on Mum’s couch flashing across his mind. “I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do now.” 

She smiles sympathetically at him, reaching forward to affectionately pat the back of his hand. He’s quite certain Moneypenny is the only person at MI6 who would dare to be this familiar with him, but she proceeds so casually that he forgets to feel awkward about it. “Do what you always do,” she says. “Carry on.”

***

When he gets home, Bond is fixing the kitchen sink — actually laying beneath the pipes inside the bottom storage area — shirt sleeves rolled up, wrench in hand.

“It’s so nice to have a man in the house,” Mum coos, and Q tries not to feel offended. He supposes she means a _handy man_ , which he can’t object to. Q is good at many things, but manual labor is not one of them. 

He resentfully watches his mother fuss over Bond once he’s done fixing the leaky pipe, handing him a biscuit in thanks after he’s washed up. Bond sits across the table from him and smugly bites into the treat as Q rolls his eyes. “So…” Bond begins, once Mum has left the room, “ _Avery_ , did you mention my current status at work?”

“You mean squatting at my Mum’s? No,” he answers cooly, brows raised challengingly, “But if I may inquire, how long shall you be staying?”

Bond shrugs casually, polishing off the rest of the biscuit and taking his time chewing. “I rather like it here, and Moira says it’d be lovely if I stayed a bit longer.”

Q stares at him, waiting for the punchline, but it seems as if Bond is perfectly serious. He’s beginning to doubt his own sanity because everyone — his Mum and Bond — are behaving as if it’s perfectly normal they’re suddenly living like this. “Bond, if you need help—“ he begins, stopping short because he’s wading into deep, uncharted waters.

“You are helping,” the man replies, and Q’s jaw clicks shut.

He’s not certain what’s going on, but Bond hasn’t aimed a loaded gun at anyone in a full day, and he considers that a victory in itself.

That night, he doesn’t have an excuse for walking downstairs. He’s not thirsty, and quite frankly he’s exhausted and wouldn’t mind the extra shuteye, but he can’t stop thinking of Bond sleeping alone downstairs on the couch, so he gets out of bed and heads down to the living room. Sure enough, Bond is sitting up, staring towards the windows at the front of the house where rays of light from the street lamps cast eerie shadows across the carpet. 

Q walks in and wordlessly sits in the armchair, waiting for Bond to speak to begin their nightly session.

The man is quiet for a long time, and several times he looks over to Bond’s face to double (and triple) check he’s actually awake, and not simply sitting up in his sleep. He’s definitely conscious, eyes alert, but fixated on the windows before he eventually speaks: “I keep dreaming about the girl.”

Q gazes down at his hands, which are piled in default politeness on his lap where the silk of his dressing robe is bunched around his legs. “Dahan’s daughter,” he states, nodding slowly. In a moment of morbid curiosity, he opened the dissident’s file and saw a photo of his family, and the girl — a child with dark hair and gap-toothed smile. 

The twitch returns at his eye and he laughs — a dry, resigned kind of sigh. “She didn’t even look afraid. It was like I was the first bad person she’d ever encountered,” he says, and Q isn’t sure how to respond to that.

“It’s normal, you know,” he says eventually, “To feel guilt.”

“Not for us,” Bond replies, voice wavering, and when Q looks at his face, he has the terrible realization the man is fighting back tears. 

In the lab, they’ve been trained to consider the agents as being quasi-androids, perfect killing machines, bred to shed the unhelpful human traits of sadness and regret. The myth helps employees like Q carry about their days supplying them with weapons of death and espionage, resting easy in the knowledge that whatever obstacle is presented to 007, he’ll be able to process and execute it flawlessly. Thinking of Bond as a human being would make it significantly more difficult to send him away to cause murder and mayhem.

Once the dam is breached, Bond can’t stop the deluge. He hunches forward, elbows braced against his knees, and covers his face, but Q can tell by the quaking of his shoulders that he’s weeping.

Climbing out of the chair is the most difficult part, but once he’s seated beside Bond, the rest happens almost naturally: the hand against Bond’s shoulder, Q’s arms enveloping him when the man collapses against him, rubbing his back in what he hopes is a comforting fashion. He’s surprised by the bulk of him — how heavy Bond feels in his grief, and burning hot, a wall of humidity between them as the man weeps, and fights with all his energy to stop the tears.

“Bond, it’s okay…it’s okay,” he encourages, relieved and afraid, all at once.

Never before in his young life has he experience firsthand trauma like this, nor has anyone ever credited Q with being a salve. He supposes that’s because he’s never really had a friend before. On the one hand, he’s tremendously grateful Bond has finally crumbled apart and confronted his grief, but he’s not sure what comes next — if Bond will ever be able to come back together, molecules aligned in the exact same way that previously made him 007. But then he feels guilty for considering work during a time like this, and he returns his attention to Bond.

He finally runs out of steam at dawn, and still Q holds him, even though the man is no longer crying. The one time he leans back slightly — just to test if it’s time to resume their former roles — Bond grips him fiercely, keeping Q pinned in place.

 _Right then_. Question answered, his arms remain around Bond’s shoulders, rubbing his back.

“You’re skin and bones,” the man teases, somehow deducing that even through his layers of silk and gingham. It’s something of a sore spot for Q, who has always had a hard time putting on and maintaining weight, but he’s so relieved to hear the old teasing quality return to Bond’s voice that he smiles.

“Too busy cleaning up after field agents to have a proper meal,” he answers cheekily, leaning back to see Bond’s face.

He’s greying slightly at the temples, piercing gaze framed by lines denominating the years between them. Bond look exhausted — physically and emotionally — and yet he carries inside him all the mystique and effortless charm that are hallmarks of his ilk. Q’s face warms and he tries to lean back again, but Bond still has him, hands large and firm at his back, pulling him forward, gaze flicking from besieged to cheeky as if he’s just flipped a switch.

“Don’t get me wrong. There are worse people to be comforted by,” he murmurs, so close that his breath washes across Q’s blushing cheek.

He’s very much aware of what’s happening right now. Bond has just experienced an enormous emotional rush, and now he’s seeking out one of his oldest vices for comfort. Q supposes he should feel flattered that _the_ James Bond is flirting with him, but instead he’s saddened that they’ve transitioned from a genuine emotional moment to kabuki theater.

Just as Q’s sorting out what to say, the lights of the living room flicker on, revealing his Mum standing in the doorway. “Oh…” she declares, clearly surprised to see James with his arms around her son. “I’m sorry, boys. I’ll just—I’ll put the kettle on,” she sputters, making a quick getaway to the kitchen.

Bond grins at him, but Q shoots him a warning glare as he slides away.

“You’re cross with me,” Bond notices, and he actually sounds mildly concerned. Q tells himself it’s just part of the agent’s seduction act.

The intrusion of the morning light and his mother have sobered him. “Don’t treat me like a conquest,” he says, lowering his voice so Mum won’t hear.

The playful expression on Bond’s face vanishes as he looks at him. “Is that what you think you are to me?” he whispers, his voice raw and expression unguarded.

Q looks away from him. Actually, he’s never considered what they are to each other, and he doesn’t like where this conversation is headed, so he stands and walks from the living room to help his Mum with breakfast before he gets dressed and leaves for work.

***

The next time he comes home, the blanket is neatly folded on Mum’s couch, pillow stacked atop it, and Bond is nowhere to be found.

“He said he had some errands to run,” Mum explains as she chops an onion on the cutting board.

Q doesn’t want to know what that really means, so he simply hums in recognition and sits at the table to read the newspaper whilst Mum cooks. In his periphery, he can see her glancing his way every now and then, and Q knows there’s something on her mind, but a feeling in his gut also reassures him he doesn’t want to know what that something is.

Not that it matters. Once the beef wellington is baking in the oven, she joins him at the table and sighs. When that fails to secure his attention, she clears her throat, and finally Q relents and looks up.

“You don’t have to feel embarrassed, poppet,” she begins.

He stares at her. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

She looks amused, and a little pleased with herself that she can see through her son’s perceived walls. “How long have you two been dating?” she asks, and Q practically throws down the paper.

“Oh, for God’s sake—“ he sputters, face hot. “We’re not—Bond is just having a rough time, and I was—“

Mum reaches across the table and covers is hand, as though they’re experiencing an intimate moment of bonding. “Sweetheart, I love and accept you as you are,” she says, and Q can only gape at her. The whole situation is ridiculous: his elderly mother, silver hair in trusty curlers, decked out in a tacky robe that resembles a kimono. Most absurdly, she thinks he and Bond are lovers. 

“Would you stop it? Nothing is going on,” he grumbles.

He hates the wise glimmer in her gaze as she answers: “Whatever you say, love.”

***

Bond doesn’t come back that night, and Q stifles the urge to track him with the monitoring device. After all, Bond isn’t on a mission, and he supposes it would be a privacy violation to trace his location on the template. Instead, he distracts himself with a few hours of coding and tries not to think about Bond in the city, alone, possibly getting into all kinds of trouble.

At around midnight, a tapping at the bedroom window pulls his attention from the computer, and his eyes widen she he sees Bond crouched down, balanced on the narrow sill.

Q leaps off the chair and opens the right side of the window so Bond can carefully climb inside. “Have you lost your mind?” he hisses, quickly shutting the pane.

Bond looks remarkably composed for a man who’s just scaled up the side of a building as he slides out of his jacket and drapes it across the back of Q’s chair. “Didn’t want to ring the bell and wake Moira,” he explains, which is such a civilized explanation that it momentarily takes the wind out of his sails.

Q leans against the closed window, frozen in disbelief as he watches Bond casually look around his room, starting with the stack of books beside Q’s bed, and working his way over to the computer. The man looks the same, and there are no new bruises or lacerations on his face, which is good news, he supposes. That means Bond hasn’t been away causing havoc in the city — at least not the type that ends in a physical altercation.

“Are you all right?” he finally manages to ask, unsure of what else he should say.

Humming affirmatively, Bond takes a seat on the edge of the bed and clasps his hands in front of him. “You like Faulkner,” he observes, gesturing over to the pile of books. Q is a bit dumbstruck by the course of conversation, but he nods slightly. “I’ll bet you don’t understand a bloody word of his ramblings,” Bond smirks, eyes glimmering in challenge. “You keep those books to impress your little know-it-all friends.”

“Yes, all my visitors,” he replies wryly, eyes rolling.

Bond knows better than almost anyone how anti-social Q is, and no doubt this little jab is meant to hit that precise sore spot, but he doesn’t even mind because they’re finally in familiar territory — teasing banter. He tries not to remember the warm weight of Bond’s body pressed against him — the smell of his cologne. How, for a split second, it seemed as though they were going to kiss, until Mum flipped on the light and broke the spell.

He clears his throat, very much aware Bond is still watching him closely and hasn’t said anything in response: “The blanket and pillows are still on the couch, if you want to—“

“I’d rather sleep up here, if it’s all the same to you,” the man interrupts, looking around the room once more, perhaps attempting to determine where he’ll be sleeping.

Q’s lips part as he searches for words. “I….” he begins, pauses, and starts again: “There’s no where to sleep…”

“Floor will do,” Bond replies cheerily, already climbing onto the floor and testing it out — not even bothering to shed his trousers or dress shirt. “I want to be close, in case…” he trails off, casting a single, self-conscious glance Q’s way.

 _Ah_. Bond is afraid he’ll have another nightmare and doesn’t want to risk Q not visiting in the middle of the night to wake and comfort him. He doesn’t want the man to feel embarrassed, so instead he picks up one of the pillows from his bed and hands it to Bond. “Here, at least take this. Do you need a blanket?”

“No, cheers,” Bond says, curling up onto his side, which means the conversation is over.

Not knowing what else to do, and feeling it would be rude to continue coding (lest the clicking of keys and glowing screen keep his guest awake), Q flips off the light and climbs into bed. With an arm folded behind his head, he stares at the ceiling for a while, determined to forbid his treacherous mind from continuously revisiting the fact that Bond is sleeping directly beside him, and of all the individuals in London, trusts Q and Q alone with what’s left of his sanity.

That could mean anything, really. It doesn’t make Q special.

At around what he estimates to be two or three in the morning, Bond stirs beside him and whispers: “Q…”

He jolts onto his side, braced upon an elbow and answers immediately: “Yes? What’s wrong?”

Though it’s dark, Q hears the smirk in Bond’s voice when he replies: “Nothing. Just can’t sleep, and I was wondering…”

“Oh, bloody hell,” he sighs, collapsing onto his back — annoyed and immensely relieved. Bond isn’t experiencing another severe PTSD episode. He just wants to chat, like they’re a couple of twelve-year-old boys at a sleepover. 

The grin in his voice blossoms into a full-blown chuckle once Bond realizes he’s scared Q half to death. “Sorry. I was just laying here wondering about you. What do you get up to outside of MI6? I mean, besides eating soup with your mother…”

Q’s face heats up and he spits: “Not all of us are free of obligations, you know.”

The pause that comes afterwards causes him to immediately regret his words. He shouldn’t have spoken so harshly. Bond is just trying to make conversation. It’s just…Q is aware most young men his age, especially at MI6, live the gloriously unencumbered existences of swinging bachelors, but that has never been an option for him. 

“Family is important. It’s good you’re caring for your mum,” Bond finally responds.

An initial scan determines the comment is sarcasm-free, and as such, Q isn’t quite sure how to answer. He’s quite familiar with Bond’s file, including the parts about him being an orphan, so he’s sure the remark is genuine, and yet he finds himself suddenly incapable of speaking past the lump in his throat.

Fortunately, Bond continues: “But I suppose it makes dating difficult.”

He’s grateful for the plunge back into the ice-cold depths of inappropriateness because it sobers him. “Yes, I suppose you’ve spent many nights wallowing in inconsolable grief over my non-existent social life,” he smirks.

The scent of Bond’s cologne billows into his nostrils, which is how Bond senses the man is closer — perhaps propped up onto an elbow so he can peek over the side of the bed. When Q looks to the side, he can see the outline of Bond’s head and shoulders, but not the finer details of his face. 

“I wonder about you, is all. I’ve got everyone else figured out—“

“Oh, is that right?” 

“Yes, but not you. Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“For Christ’s sake, Bond…”

“Boyfriend?”

Q covers his face, rubbing at his eyes, nose, and mouth with his palms. He wants to reach over to the desk to fetch his glasses — maybe then he’ll be able to see Bond more clearly — but he’s lost the energy to move. He wonders if this is Bond’s way of getting on a level playing field again. He’s recently seen Bond in a tremendously vulnerable state, so maybe the agent needs to arm himself with some incriminating nuggets regarding Q in order to feel safe again.

The idea simultaneously annoys and saddens him.

“If you want to know if I’m gay, just ask,” he mutters, suddenly exhausted with their conversation.

The responding pause rests heavy between them: “I don’t care if you’re gay,” Bond finally says, sounding a little surprised. “…Are you?”

“Yes,” he answers gruffly. “Satisfied? Interrogation complete?”

The outline of Bond’s head descends until Q can’t see it anymore, and the man is once more laying on the ground. He never replies, which Q interprets as an answer in itself. He believes his sexuality really doesn’t matter to Bond, but that doesn’t explain the man’s curiosity in his personal life, and right now he doesn’t have the energy to parse their relationship.

Q just wants to sleep, and he does…for a little while. For fifteen blissful minutes, he sleeps and doesn’t think about James Bond.

“Q…”

He opens an eye and the outline of Bond’s head is back. “What?” he whispers hoarsely.

“You believe me, yeah? I’m not—I wouldn’t hold something like that over you.”

Bond actually sounds worried, as though he cares that Q might think that of him. And though he did believe that very thing, suddenly he feels quite guilty for assuming Bond capable of the worst kind of blackmail. Chances are, no one at MI6 would care about Q’s personal life, but there’s always the odds someone, a higher up, one of the more starchy conservative relics, might take issue with it and have him fired. Bond seems to be tortured by the idea that Q would lump him into a group of unsavories aiming to exploit that bigotry.

“I know…” he says.

He can see Bond nod, satisfied, and then perhaps uncomfortable wallowing in a genuine, decent moment, he adds: “I’m just amazed you have a personal life at all, to be perfectly honest.”

Q smirks. “I didn’t say I’m a practicing homosexual, did I? That’s just my sexual inclination, but those of us, who aren’t field agents loitering about all day, are actually quite busy…”

“Oh, forgive me…” Bond purrs, cheeky, voice rumbling in a way that makes Q blush. “I forgot noble Q is too busy for sex.”

“Yes, well,” he quips, smiling despite himself. “Perhaps I’ll become a field agent one day and my schedule will free up…"

Another pause follows and Q’s heart claws upwards to pulsate in his throat. He’s always been rubbish at flirting, and he wonders if it’s gone too far this time. Bond started it, as he always does, but this is the longest Q has gone on responding without a natural interruption at MI6, such as an international terrorism crisis, or just some more busy work descending on his desk — something that pulls him from the banter with Bond — and leaves them to reset as polite work colleagues the next time they speak.

He briefly contemplates pretending to fall asleep again, but that feels too juvenile. He should say something — anything — perhaps make an excuse that he has to get some sleep so he’s not useless at work tomorrow.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” Bond suddenly asks. Q is rendered speechless for a moment, mostly because he has no idea what the man is talking about, but clarification comes when he adds: “…Become a field agent?”

Q laughs, relieved and disbelieving. He doesn’t know where to begin explaining all the obstacles that would prevent that from ever becoming a reality. First, Q would fail the physical endurance test in about five minutes, in addition to the fact that agents need perfect 20/20 vision to operate in the field. The possibility of LASIK eye surgery aside, he would still never, ever be able to keep up with the Double Os. Second, he has a whole list of phobias, including fear of heights and shooting guns, that would make him a rubbish agent.

Still….it’s rather flattering Bond thinks it’s a possibility. 

“Well, it pays better than research and development,” he says teasingly.

Bond, apparently, misses the joke because he moves onto his knees and leans over Q, deadly serious when he says: “Q, promise you wouldn’t…”

He’s keenly aware of how close the man is to him, and suddenly Q is afraid to move — not out of fear that Bond would ever hurt him, but rather that if he extended his finger tips an inch upwards, or he sat up slightly, they would be touching. 

“I wouldn’t…” he answers quietly.

He doesn’t know how, but Q can feel the relief emanating off Bond like waves. “Good,” he sighs, lingering so close that his breath washes across Q’s forehead and cheekbone. His eyesight isn’t very good even when it’s daytime and light illuminates the space around him, but he wonders if Bond can see him. “I like that you’re not part of it,” he says.

“Part of what?” Q asks, barely able to speak.

He knows Bond has laid back down when the warm presence vanishes, along with the silhouette.

The answer doesn’t come for a few moments, and afterwards they both sleep.

“The ugliness."

***

M summons him in the middle of the day, so Q knows the matter must be serious. He’s meant to conduct a meeting for R&D, a sort of general education for the researchers and engineers to help familiarize themselves with the latest tools of mass destruction. Q considers the meeting low-priority, but M doesn’t. For M, this is a cash cow. The more toys they dispense to the agents, the more toys they buy from weapons companies that, in turn, make lavish donations to the politicians most likely to keep MI6 heavily funded.

As such, it’s very, very important Q conducts the business.

And yet M schedules their chat for the same time, leaving the meeting in the hands of Louis, who is adequate, but no where near the same league as Q.

When he walks into the office, M is seated behind his desk, Tanner dutifully standing a little to the side. 

“Yes?” he asks, eyebrows raised politely.

“Q, have you been in touch with Bond?” M asks immediately, right to the point, chin bowed close to his chest as he gazes up at him.

The question is really more of a statement. M is accusing him of making contact with Bond when the agent has been placed on suspension — definitely a no-no even though M never sat him down and specifically forbade it. He’s also never had a heart-to-heart with Bond about their little meetings, but something tells him Bond wouldn’t want him airing his dirty laundry in front of the whole of MI6, but especially to M.

It occurs to him that he’s going to have to choose between loyalty to his career and loyalty to Bond, a decision he made one instance before, the first time he oversaw Bond in the field and the man asked for his help.

And like that last time, Q doesn’t hesitate when he answers: “No, of course not. Why?”

Tanner squints slightly and M stares at him for a beat before he responds: “Just checking. Do let me know if he makes contact.”

“Will do,” he answers pleasantly.

M dismisses him after that, and Q is able to attend the rest of the meeting — a good thing, too, because he walks into Louis floundering as he attempts to explain the new laser piton guns. For the rest of the day, he immerses himself in work, doing his damnedest not to wallow in the undercurrent of M’s nefarious warning.

From now on, he has to assume his Mum’s house will be under surveillance and it’s not safe for Bond to visit anymore.

Upon returning home at the end of the day, it becomes clear Bond harbors similar fears. Mum hands him a white envelope with his name, “Avery,” written on the front.

“From your gentleman caller,” she declares, missing his vicious glare when she turns to monitor the stew cooking on the burner. “He must have slipped it under the door.”

Q tears open the envelope and reads the brief message:

> _Dearest Avery—_
> 
> _Sorry for the trouble. I saw the blokes sent to monitor your home. Have decided to find a new flat to prevent you and Moira any undue distress._
> 
> _I do hope you’ll visit me soon._
> 
> _—Bond_

Beneath the signature is Bond’s new address. Q quickly refolds the note and slips it into his jacket pocket.

“When will dinner be ready?” he asks, tone neutral, despite the knowing look Mum shoots him.

***

Even though Mum’s new medicine is quite effective, and she has far more good days than bad, occasionally the arthritic flair ups are severe enough to keep her in bed all day. Fortunately, this time the spell falls on a weekend, so Q is around all day to take care of her. He relocates the little portable television to the bedroom and sets it up so Mum can watch her soaps, and Q prepares her meals throughout the day, delivering each one to a chorus of “Thank you, love,” and “My sweet Avery.” 

He tries to spend most of the day with her, propped up against a wall of pillows, shoulders touching as they watch television and Mum explains all the characters to him, and the dramatic occurrences of their respective lives since the last time Q watched the shows.

“Oh, this scoundrel,” Mum mutters, glaring at the face of a man, who Q must admit looks very much like he’s up to no good.

He chuckles and takes the empty bowl from her hands. “Good soup? I can’t make it like you…”

“It was delicious, love, thank you,” she answers, now looking at him instead of the television. “You shouldn’t be cooped up here all night with me. What’s James up to tonight?”

Bond’s address, which he has memorized, flashes in his mind. But now that the agent is no longer gracing them with his little visits, the fantasy of their happy family unit has been shattered, and he knows it isn’t fair to lead Mum on — as though anything would ever happen between he and Bond, and even if it did, as if it could ever be normal. Bond has deep, severe trauma. He needs help — therapy — not yet another complicated relationship.

“I don’t know, Mum. But…James…he isn’t—“

“I can tell, you know. From the way he looks at you. He cares about you,” she says, talking over him, nodding in satisfaction as she looks back to the screen. It’s like one of her soaps. Mum has observed his relationship with Bond and already mapped out the arc of their relationship, deciding they’re a good match.

Q doesn’t see the benefit in shattering the illusion, so he keeps quiet, only breaking the spell to say, “Maybe I’ll give him a ring later.”

Mum smiles happily and pats his leg.

***

But he can’t call Bond because he doesn’t have a phone number to reach him. However, he does have an address, so Q changes into a nice pair of slacks, a collared shirt, and pulls a sweater over the ensemble to complete it. Then he attempts to tame his mop of hair and pops into the bedroom to check on Mum one last time before he’s off.

“You sure you’ll be all right?” he asks, gripping the doorframe and frowning at her surroundings. She looks so frail and small positioned in the center of the queen-size mattress.

Mum shoos him away with a wave of her hand. “Go on. You worry about me too much. Have fun,” she says.

He tries to take her words to heart, and briefly considers picking up a bottle of wine, but doesn’t at the last second because he thinks it’s too presumptuous. Beyond some light flirting and the moment when he imagined they might kiss, Bond has never shown romantic interest in him, and it would be wrong of Q to force his expectations upon the man.

As such, he rides the tube with empty hands — probably a good thing, considering he’s suddenly perspiring quite heavily — and frequently wipes palms against his trousers. Three times, he nearly turns around and hurries back home, a slew of excuses nesting in his mind: the trains weren’t running, Bond wasn’t in, he’s feeling ill…

Q doesn’t turn around. He makes the various train connections and walks the rest of the way to Bond’s, occasionally making sure there aren’t any tails following him. There aren’t. When he reaches the correct address, he has another crisis of faith because Bond’s flat building is sleek and modern — an imposing tower of black glass — guarded by not one, but two, doormen. Q envisions stammering through an explanation of who he is, and his purpose for visiting, and feels rather pathetic.

However, upon seeing him, the older of the pair cries: “Ah! Mr. Worthington! Mr. Bond is expecting you!” and opens the door for him.

He’s speechless at the warm greeting, but also that Bond somehow knows his full name. But then again, Bond’s business is subterfuge, so he supposes nothing should amaze him. “Uh, cheers,” he says eventually, waving before crossing the marble lobby floor. He lingers by the elevators, unsure of what button to push when the same doorman pokes his head inside and calls:

“Penthouse three, Mr. Worthington!”

Q waves again and pushes the correct button. “Thank you!” he replies.

A career in espionage has taught him to notice the various security accoutrements most civilians probably never detect. In this case, the heavy security of Bond’s building. In addition to the doormen, there are two cameras above the elevator, which no doubt feed up to monitoring screens in Bond’s flat. When Q pushes the button, a green light flickers on above the camera, and upon seeing him, Bond opens the elevator doors.

The ride up to the penthouse floor feels endless, and suddenly his mouth grows very dry. He tells himself he’s just checking on Bond to make sure he hasn’t had another episode, and Q clings to that lie like a life raft when the doors slide open, revealing the cavernous space of Bond’s living room.

Like the rest of the building, the penthouse is composed of hard, uncompromising lines — steel and black marble — and sparse furniture that most definitely fits the aesthetic theme requirements, but cannot possibly be comfortable. On the spectrum of habitats, his Mum’s house is the polar opposite of Bond’s flat, and Q immediately feels like an inadequate outsider — an awkward little boy asking to dine at the adults' table.

He’s so intimidated it takes him a couple seconds to realize Bond is holding a gun.

“All right?” the agent asks warily, glancing behind Q.

“Uh, yeah. Just me,” he says as the elevator doors slide shut behind him.

As he takes a few cautious steps into the living room, he drinks in the various details of Bond’s face: the bloodshot eyes and growing stubble, the slightly wrinkled fabric of his dress shirt. Bond hasn’t been sleeping — probably afraid of triggering another event should a nightmare visit him. 

A large kitchen area rests adjacent to the room and Q sees an open bottle of whisky resting on the counter.

“Starting the night with whisky, hm? You should pace yourself,” he says, hoping to lighten the mood with a little levity.

“You came,” Bond says, and he sounds slightly amazed.

For some reason, Q feels vulnerable under the scrutiny of Bond’s gaze and the openness of his words. He smiles thinly, glancing around the apartment and asks: “Can I have a tour?”

Bond puts the gun away in a safe and shows Q around, though there isn’t much to reveal. The agent has clearly just moved in, and ordered most of his belongings via high-brow catalogue. There are no photos or personal possessions, and certainly no portals into Bond’s childhood, as there are in Q’s room back at Mum’s.

“Your house is better,” Bond says, standing in the doorway of his bedroom as he watches Q look around.

Q smiles slightly, for the first time certain Bond isn’t teasing him. “Well, I’ve had more time to settle in,” he offers generously.

“So what’s your type then?” Bond asks suddenly.

Q turns to face him. “Sorry?”

“Of blokes? What’s your type?”

He smirks, hardly able to believe they’re having this conversation this early into his visit, not to mention the fact that they’re about an arm's reach from Bond’s bed. Bond is emboldened by the alcohol and his vast wealth of experience in the bedroom, but Q is sober and not at all accustomed to this kind of seduction. Besides, he’s not about to confess his type is older British men, who are broad in the shoulders, tease him mercilessly, and have gorgeous blue eyes.

He can’t give Bond that satisfaction…yet.

“Can I get a drink?” he asks, amazed his voice sounds steady.

Bond watches him a moment longer, but eventually smiles: “Of course.”

***

Q stands in the kitchen and watches Bond open a nice bottle of wine, an elegant gesture, given he was quite sure the agent was going to ply him with whisky. Bond seems sober enough as his steady hands pours two glasses and he extends one to him.

“Cheers,” he says, accepting the glass and smelling the wine before taking a delicate sip. It’s good: rich and buttery. He hums in approval.

He’s keenly aware Bond is watching him — first his face, to gauge his reaction to the wine, but then the man’s gaze dips to his throat when he swallows. Q’s face warms and he prays his core temperature shift isn’t reflected by a blush of cheeks. Q naturally looks very young, but he looks about eight-years-old when he flushes in embarrassment.

“Tell me your type…” Bond says again, and Q smiles, fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass, as he walks farther into the living room and sits down on the long, black couch.

“Are you feeling all right?” Q asks instead, unable to unmoor himself completely from the obligation of Bond’s health. “Did you sleep last night?”

Bond’s gaze is intense as he follows him. “I’m not a bloody invalid. Why won’t you answer me?”

Q watches him, smiling slowly when he realizes Bond is frustrated with him. He’s busting out all his trusty moves — the ones that usually woo the ladies, and occasional young men, to his bed — and Q isn’t responding as he likes. In fact, Q is considering him as a doctor would an ill person, or a nurse might an elderly patient.

Bond is exasperated, maybe even a little insecure.

It’s endearing.

He leans back, free arm extended across the back of the couch as he shrugs slowly. “I wouldn’t say I have a _type_ , per se…” he begins evasively, pausing to sip the wine.

Bond sets down his flute of wine on the glass table and joins Q on the couch. Suddenly, he seems in perfect control of his faculties again as he considers the young man. The challenging light returns to his gaze, a smirk hanging from his lips as he says: “Bollocks. You’ve never been with a man.”

Q rolls his eyes, unable to help the laughter that pours from his mouth: “Oh dear. Is that the fantasy you have of me? That I’m a virgin?” he grins, noticing the flash in Bond’s eyes. “Should I have come here in my school uniform?”

He experiences a surge of pride when Bond swallows thickly, perhaps envisioning that very scenario, but his victorious air vanishes when the man responds with a growl, a dangerous edge in his voice as he asks: “Who?”

Bond wants names, and though it’s a short list, Q has no intention of telling him about his past lovers. For starters, it’s none of Bond’s business, though he can’t deny feeling flattered that he’s consumed by jealousy due to their very existences.

Playing coy, he smirks and leans forward to set down the glass — just to buy a couple more seconds where Bond is watching him as though the man’s been hypnotized. The logical part of his brain knows this is all part of the dance, and yet he can’t stop the heady feeling from overwhelming him. He is here with the most skilled special agent in all of British intelligence (quite possibly the world) and Bond has chosen him above everyone else. At least for tonight.

“Why are you so interested?” he asks, voice pitched low, acutely aware of how close the man is seated beside him — their shoulders touching — Bond watching his mouth as he speaks.

Bond dips close to him and Q stops breathing, certain they’re about to kiss, but he pauses just short so he’s hovering centimeters away from his lips when he whispers, “Bloody tease,” and seals the distance. A wounded whimper pours from Q’s mouth into Bond’s and he grips the man’s lapels, anchoring him in place. Unsurprisingly, the agent kisses authoritatively, strong arms looped around Q’s slender frame, keeping him pinned in place as they did that night on his Mum’s couch.

This embrace is considerably less innocent, however. Q’s hands slide across the broad expanse of his chest, sliding north to loop around his shoulders. Bond hums into his mouth approvingly, tilting his head and deepening the embrace. His heart races rabbit quick, mind reeling disbelievingly that he’s here with Bond, and they’re kissing, and judging by the way Bond’s fingers claw at his back, the man has wanted this for a very long time too.

 _Why did we wait so long?_ Q thinks helplessly as Bond yanks up his sweater and dress shirt to touch the naked column of his spine. His second thought: _Show off_ , pops into his head when Bond gathers him in his arms and picks up Q from the couch, large hands gripping his rear as he wraps his legs around the man’s waist. They kiss slower now — lazy and indulgent — and when Q peeks open an eye, he sees Bond’s eyes are closed as he instinctively navigates them towards the bedroom.

The realization causes his heart beat to ratchet up even though of course he knew that would be the natural outcome of necking on the couch with _the_ James Bond. He shuts his eyes and presses close to Bond’s solid frame, focusing on the man’s taste (sweet wine, the remnants of a cigar), and his musky, masculine scent, so he doesn’t think about what will come later — and how tremendously exciting and intimidating that all is.

Bond sets him onto the bed with surprising gentleness and Q stretches out onto his back, making a little show of it as he arches his spine. He grins when he’s rewarded with a hungry look and Bond immediately shedding his jacket, dexterous fingers flying down the front of his dress shirt, unbuttoning and revealing the smooth, toned plane of his chest and stomach. 

Q laughs when the man bends down and removes his shoes, then socks, and Bond grins up at him — the same look he shot him in the pub — as though the sound of his laughter pleases him.

He watches appreciatively as the man stands bared before the bed until it occurs to Q that he’s waiting for reciprocity. “Oh..” he says, sitting up and smiling shyly when Bond grins at him. He unbuttons the collar of shirt just enough so that he can slide it, and the sweater, off his head and toss it aside. He adjusts his glasses and flashes another smile — this one considerably more self-conscious. The contrast between their physiques could not be more obvious: Bond tan and statuesque, and Q…well…

He’s always been just shy of scrawny — tall and thin, ribs and spine pressing against pale flesh. Suddenly, he’s worried Bond won’t like the look of him. From studying case files, he knows Bond has gone to bed with some of the most beautiful people in the world, so he wonders if the man is having second thoughts now that it looks as though a prepubescent tween has invaded his bed.

But if Bond is having second thoughts, his face doesn’t register the reservations. Instead, he grips the front of Q’s trousers and unbuckles his belt, tugging down the zipper and working them from his hips. Q falls onto his back again, lifting his pelvis to assist disrobing, teeth sinking gently into his bottom lip as he watches Bond shed the rest of his clothing and stand before the bed, gorgeous and self-confident as only a man of his caliber can be. 

When Bond hooks his fingers under the elastic waist of Q’s briefs, he holds his breath as the man pulls the last barrier of clothing down his legs and tosses them aside. They’re both nude, gazing at one another, taking a moment to finally see what both of them have been imagining for so long. 

Q is still nervous, though, suddenly hyper-aware of his body’s every flaw and blemish.

“Say something,” he whispers, fingers curling into the soft bedspread.

“You’re beautiful,” Bond sighs, the mattress dipping as he kneels between Q’s legs, which open slowly to accommodate him.

He doesn’t know what to say to that because never in his wildest fantasies would a man like Bond ever say those kinds of words to him, but fortunately the man doesn’t wait for an articulate response. Instead, he carefully descends — first lips, then the rest of him pressing into Q. He whimpers again, grateful when Bond’s mouth serves to muffle his pathetically wanton display. His fingers cup the stubbled jaw, stroking encouragingly, coaxing sexy little moans from his throat. Bond kisses him for a few seconds, rocking his hips forward gently, and Q’s cock grows rigid almost immediately.

Because while Q might not be asexual as so many of his colleagues assume, it has been a very, very long time since he went to bed with a man.

“Who was it?” Bond rasps against the flushed skin of his cheek and Q moans in frustration.

He wants Bond to fuck him — not interrogate him about his past. But he’s beginning to understand that Bond isn’t exactly the type of man to let something like this go until he’s received a satisfactory answer. Q shifts beneath him, gasping softly when his erection grinds against Bond’s hard cock. 

Truthfully, he’s only been with two men: one when he was young, an older neighbor in his mid-twenties, who introduced him to things like kissing, groping, and eventually awkward, brief sex. 

He didn’t have a fully satisfying experience until he was at university.

“My professor…” he whispers, mouth pressed to the spot just beneath Bond’s ear.

His lips curl into a smirk when he feels a tremor travel up Bond’s spine. Technically, the man is in a dominant position — two stones heavier than Q, draped atop him — and yet he feels powerful as his fingertips trace across the span of Bond’s solid back, feeling how the muscles are drawn taut. Bond is jealous and aroused by the idea that his little fantasy actually happened, although Bond wasn’t in the room for the show.

“Bent you over his desk and fucked you, did he?” Bond growls, his cheek roughly rubbing against Q’s jaw as he nips and sucks wet, red marks into the side of his throat.

Q hisses and arched his neck to the side. No, Professor Williams never bent him over his desk, but Q did kneel on the floor and gave him a blow job, followed by a hasty hand job courtesy of the professor. The real sex didn’t happen until later, back at the man’s flat, but there’s no need to mention that part to Bond.

“Yes,” he gasps, thighs tightening at Bond’s flanks so he can lift his hips and soundly grind their cocks together. He feels a bead of moisture roll down the base of his shaft, but he’s unsure if the liquid leaked from his own dick, or Bond’s. Regardless, he’s breathing hard — practically panting — and he doesn’t want to come too early. “Can we…?” he trails off.

Bond reaches across the bed and gropes along the side table, knocking over an object or two until he yanks open the drawer and pulls out a tube of lubricant. He kneels between Q’s legs and twists off the cap, missing when Q quirks a brow at the half-used tube. Eventually, Bond does glance upwards and notices the scowl. “Aw,” he sighs, leaning down to press an apologetic kiss to his burning forehead. “I assure you, none of them were as lovely as you. Besides, I thought you wanted nothing to do with me.”

Q sucks in a deep breath and tries to relax when Bond slides a couple lube-coated fingers along the crevice and rubs gently at his entrance. It feels a little strange, but also amazing. “Didn’t know…you were interested,” he confesses, eyelashes fluttering when the man presses a fingertip past the tight ring of muscles. 

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growls and Q realizes it’s his cock that was leaking when Bond’s words send another couple droplets running down his length.

“Don’t,” he whispers when the man tries to grip him. If Bond does that, he’s done for. 

The room is suddenly sweltering, every inch of his flesh covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and the muscles of his thighs quiver from exertion as he attempts to steady his breathing. But Bond is just getting started, another finger sinking into him, the digits crooking expertly and rubbing at the hidden, sensitive area, sending jolts of electricity running up his spine.

“Oh,” he cries, back arched and head tilted into the pillow as he comes across his stomach and chest. He collapses against the bed, too euphoric and exhausted to feel embarrassed that he didn’t even last five minutes. For his part, Bond looks perfectly unconcerned by his early ejaculation. His fingers slide out of Q and he bends down, kissing across his chest and stomach, pausing only occasionally to comment on how lovely Q looks — the words causing his face to burn hot and red. “Here…let me…” he whispers, tenderly cupping Bond’s head, fingers running through the short, blond strands.

He shimmies down the bed, gripping Bond’s hips and coaxing the man onto his side, angling his pelvis so he can swallow his cock. Q has only done this a handful of times, but he remembers the gist of it: throat relaxed, no teeth, don’t neglect the sack between his thighs. Bond is vocal in bed, shouting when Q’s head bobs up and down enthusiastically. He hums, the vibrations traveling up Bond’s wet cock, and the man grips his hair viciously — just the right side of painful. 

The rhythm occasionally jostles Q’s glasses, but he refuses to take them off because he needs them to see Bond’s face. The man looks undone: flushed, panting, babbling as he strokes at the back of Q’s head and neck. The man rasps a warning, which he heeds, head bobbing faster until he pulls back at the last second, and grips his cock, pumping until a broken cry tears from his throat and he jettisons across his thigh and hipbone.

“Fucking hell,” Bond sighs, an arm folded behind his head, free hand gently stroking Q’s cheek as he lingers before him, kissing his thigh. 

He climbs up the bed and collapses beside Bond, only vaguely aware of a strong arm wrapped around his waist before he falls asleep.

***

“Heya mum, all right?” Q asks.

He’s seated on the side of the bed, still nude, cell phone cradled in his hand. He smiles slowly as Mum says she’s fine and then immediately launches into a recap of the soap’s ending. Once she’s run out of steam, he asks if she needs him to come home tonight. Of course, she insists he stays out and enjoys himself.

As she speaks, Q feels a pair of warm lips at the base of his spine and he smiles, but refuses to look back as Bond kisses up the column of his back. 

“Enjoy yourself, Avery, love. And say hello to James for me,” she says teasingly.

Bond must hear the last bit because he calls over Q’s shoulder: “Good night, Moira.”

She cheerily cries back to him and Q smirks, hanging up the phone before Bond yells anything incriminating. He tosses his cell onto the table and turns, laying down again so he’s pressed against the man. Bond hums approvingly, “Have a nice nap?”

He smiles shyly because he didn’t really plan on sleeping, nor does he specifically recall making a conscious decision to power down. “Yes,” he whispers, reaching down to grip Bond between his legs where his cock rests hot and half-hard. Q strokes him slowly, watching in fascination as the confident swagger crumbles from Bond’s face, replaced with a look of pleasured, almost wounded surrender. “I believe we were in the middle of something,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss the corner of his agape mouth.

“Indeed,” Bond replies, voice quivering.

Q nuzzles the underside of his jaw, whispering on an exhale: “James…”

The room swims, Q landing hard on his back as Bond hurls him against the mattress. He laughs, a loud, breathless sound because he’s so surprised and drunk on the knowledge that he has this effect on the man. But the levity vanishes almost instantly when Bond grabs his thighs, his hands huge wrapped around their narrow circumferences, and pushes them against his chest. Q swallows thickly, watching Bond grab the tube again, along with a condom, biting into the wrapper and tearing it open before rolling the latex onto his erection and smearing a couple drops against his cock.

“Say that again,” the man growls, gripping his length and pressing the head against his wet hole.

He can barely breathe, but Q reaches up to grip his biceps for purchase as he moans, “James—“ eyes pinched shut and head tilted back as he shouts, the head enormous as it presses forth. Bond is big — too big to push inside with one stroke — so he pauses in increments, expertly pushing forth whenever Q relaxes enough to permit it. He uses his larger frame to nearly fold Q in half, dipping down to kiss him, and to swallow his moans and whimpers until his hips rest flush against his rear.

“Fuck, _fuck_..” Q whimpers, lips agape as he attempts to see between them. He wants to see James stretching him wide open.

“It _has_ been a while, hasn’t it?” he purrs, thrusting gently to mark his point. 

Q has no idea how he can string together a coherent thought right now. All he can muster is another soft gasp and a tremble when James kisses his forehead and pulls out, only to push back inside slowly. The lube eases the passage, but there’s still a delicious drag, the friction sending waves of pleasure up Q’s spine. 

He has few experiences to compare Bond’s performance to, but he knows sex has never been like this for him. Meanwhile, a treacherous part of his brain cannot sit back and enjoy the experience, but instead ponders how he rates in James’ mind — if he’s being too much of a dead fish simply because he’s afraid to move too suddenly lest he ejaculate prematurely again.

But then James bows his head, hips moving sharper, more insistent, and a growl tears from his throat. Q is pinned in place, helpless as James fucks him roughly. He feels so stretched and full, partly amazed the entire length fit inside him, and has yet to split him in two. His lips hang agape, each stroke of the man’s hips pushing another pathetic cry from his chest. 

Distantly, he hears his voice whining: “James…Oh, James…”

Fingers wrap around his cock, stroking in time with the rhythm, their cries mingling and hysterical over the undercurrent of hips slapping against the red, chaffed flesh of his rear. 

It’s good — far too good to last — and Q explodes for a second time, toes curled, his calf muscle seizing from the force of it. As soon as he orgasms, James’ thrusts falter and he shouts, hunched over as his pace becomes frantic, bouncing Q beneath him until he freezes. He watches the man’s face, knowing he’s coming, but unable to feel it (he knows the condom is necessary, but for a cold, dark second, he hates its presence, an impersonal barrier between them). 

James is wrecked: forehead shining with sweat, his eyes dazed and glassy. When their eyes meet, he smiles and dips down to kiss him, and Q moans happily.

When the man draws away, and his cock slips free, Q gives a disappointed huff, and James chuckles: “Terribly sorry, Avery, but we should clean up.”

He forgets to be angry about the loss of pressure and warmth because James just said his name, and the sound was full of affection, and he can’t stop smiling.

***

“What’s your type?” he asks, after the shower, when they’re laying in bed together.

James’ arm is wrapped around his shoulder, Q’s head pressed against the man’s chest, his gaze’s target alternating between the ceiling and the enormous pane of glass that comprises the bedroom’s fourth wall. It’s dark outside, but the aerial view looks down upon the illuminated cityscape, a thousand yellow lights twinkling beneath them.

“Gorgeous brunettes, of course,” he slyly answers, reaching down to grip and squeeze Q’s rear fondly.

He smiles against James’ pectoral muscle, allowing himself an unguarded moment of pleasure and giddiness at the compliment, even if the words are superficial. Now that he’s thinking clearly, Q can take in the finer details of the man’s physique, including the various scars and burns peppering his body. It’s another reminder that the life of a field agent is an arduous one, and once he begins to think of the darker side of their business, he remembers the event that originally brought them closer together.

“Am I a terrible Quartermaster?” he asks, “I feel as though I’ve taken advantage of your vulnerable state.” 

Though he’s smiling and there is laughter in his voice, Q does wonder if he’s overstepped some unseen boundary here. Bond is traumatized and sought help from him, and they’ve wound up in bed together.

James kisses the top of his head and chuckles. “By granting me a moment’s reprieve? No…” he says, his capable hands stroking the small of Q’s back. “Besides, _I_ pursued _you_ …”

“Oh, that’s right,” he answers, kissing James’ chest, and then his throat, carving a path northward until their lips meet.

***

Their first few weeks together are nice — almost sweetly normal and domestic. Q still goes to work, but eventually he moves a few outfits into James’ wardrobe just because it makes his commute easier. Initially, he’s afraid to leave Mum on her own, but she practically chases him out of the house with a broom when he confesses he’s partially relocating into James’ penthouse. Even though the man has expressed contentment with their new living arrangements, Q is constantly afraid of overstepping their boundaries.

After all, James is an international man of mystery — a perpetual bachelor and legendary playboy — and, as far as Q knows, he’s never had a longterm relationship. Q doesn’t want to cramp his style.

“I can pop back to Mum’s to wash up,” Q says during one of these crises, clutching his toothbrush as he stares warily at the sink’s porcelain base.

James gently removes the brush from his hand and places it beside his own in the hidden medicine cabinet behind the mirror. “I want you here,” he says again, gripping Q by the shoulders and kissing his forehead. 

So that’s how he comes to live with James, at least part time, but long enough that they’re lounged together on the sofa when Bond receives a phone call from M, telling him he’s to report back to MI6 since his month-long suspension is up tomorrow. Q knows it’s M on the other end before James ever says a word because the man’s entire frame tenses and he responds to the orders with monosyllabic grunts.

“Are you ready to go back?” Q asks quietly.

“I’m fine,” James says, but he stands and walks directly to the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

Q doesn’t believe him.

They’ve been living in a snow globe, a paradise containing only the two of them. As such, reality has been skewed, fooling them into believing James is healthy, and the trauma and nightmares have miraculously vanished. The truth is, when they’re together, everything really is fine — better than fine. They’re happy. But when reality comes crashing in through the penthouse’s skylight, Q realizes they haven’t really fixed anything, but rather only delayed the consequences.

This ugly reality visits him in the middle of the night when he awakes to find the bed empty beside him. He sits up slowly, blinking blearily into the darkness, squinting futilely for a few moments until he gropes along the table and finds his glasses. He glances around the bedroom, eyes still adjusting until he sees James standing nude in the corner, facing the wall.

He frowns and rasps, “James?” His voice still hoarse from sleep.

It’s then that he notices the man is clutching a gun in his hand and he only has time to think _Oh no_ before James wheels around and stalks towards him, snarling: “Who sent you?!” and cocks the gun, aiming it right at him. “Do you work for Le Chiffre?” he adds, grabbing Q’s wrist when he attempts to scramble backwards.

“James, it’s me!” he cries, even though he knows the man has no idea who he is, or where he is. He shouts again when James presses the gun against the top of his head and he cowers, trying to shield himself. “Stop!” he shouts, his entire body trembling.

“Answer me!” the man screams, furious and wild.

“It’s me! It’s Avery!” Q wails, convinced the man is about to shoot him. He’s going to die right here, in their bed, and then no one will be able to help James.

But just as suddenly as the terror began, it ends. The cold weight of the gun’s barrel vanishes from the back of his crown, and when Q peeks upwards, James is standing beside the bed, staring at him in confusion. The man’s pupils are still blown and he sways unsteadily on his feet, asleep, but not asleep. Slowly, Q moves onto his knees, all the while glancing at the gun, waiting for James to aim it at him again, but the man never moves — not until Q reaches for him and grips his face gently.

“It’s me…” he says again. “It’s your Avery.”

James gazes at him for a long time, pupils gradually retreating to a normal size, his brow furrowed. “Avery…” he whispers, as if waking from a dream, but then the horrible reality crashes down upon him and he remembers the gun in his hand. “Oh my God,” he groans, a terrible, wounded noise that breaks Q’s heart. He drops the gun to the floor and it lands with a loud thud, though it doesn’t go off, which probably means the safety was on the whole time.

The knowledge provides little comfort.

He wraps his arms around James and holds him as the man sits on the edge of the bed and weeps into his hands. James is riddled with guilt and horrified that he endangered Q’s life. He moans, “I’m sorry, forgive me,” over and over, even though Q has already forgiven him because he didn’t do it deliberately. Maybe he should feel terrified or angry, but all he feels is relief that James came back to him.

But James is inconsolable. The first thing he does the next morning is change the code to his gun safe, and he insists Q select the new password. 

“You’re sure?” Q asks, frowning at him. “What if there’s an intruder and I’m not here?”

“You’ll be here,” James answers, his confidence warming Q’s stomach because he speaks of the possibility of Q _not_ living with him as though it’s an absurdity. 

Q chooses the new code and locks the safe. 

Afterwards, he finds James on the living room balcony, and the man wraps his arms around Q’s slender waist. “I’ll never forgive myself,” he murmurs, pale gaze drifting across his face, and the worst part is Q knows he means it. The memory of the assault will live between them like a festering wound for a while, but Q also sees an opportunity present itself.

“I want you to see Dr. Griffin again,” he says, fingers furling into the lapels of his jacket to keep him secured in place when James rolls his eyes and looks away. “I mean it. I want you to listen to his diagnosis and follow his recommendations. You need help, and there’s no shame in asking for it.”

Quitting is not an option for a man like James Bond, and it’s not like there’s another field he could easily transition into. The best he can hope for is to convince the man to take care of himself, perhaps motivated by the desire for the two of them to work towards a state of serenity.

“I don’t need him. I have you,” James replies, his hard gaze transforming into something soft and fond that makes Q feel weak. “You understand me, Avery. None of those other bastards—“ he stops, overcome for a moment. “None of them care if I live or die, but you do.”

 _More than you know_ , he thinks helplessly. “That’s true, but I also know what you need is beyond my scope. Please, James…” he whispers, cupping his face so James is forced to look at him. “Will you go see Dr. Griffin for me?”

He’s not playing fair, but Q doesn’t have weapons or brute strength on his side. All he has are his brain and this unnameable, unbreakable force holding them together — and he plans to use both of them to his advantage. James won’t say no to him and they both know it.

“Clever boy,” James purrs approvingly, his large hands cupping Q’s hips, fitting around them perfectly.

“Is that a yes?” he asks softly, easing back when the man leans forward to kiss him. He offers a small, beguiling smile. _Not yet_. _Not until you promise_.

James hums, clearly trying to figure out a way around confronting his past, and all his old wounds, but whichever way he charges, Q is there to parry and redirect him towards the place of healing. 

“For you,” he finally surrenders, smirking as though he can hardly believe he’s been bested. “ _Yes_.”

This time when he leans forward, Q is there to meet him.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr: theaoidos.tumblr.com


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